Sick
by Desdemona Kakalose
Summary: One of the greatest ironies of life is that you never really know what kind of disturbing things the man sitting beside you might be thinking. And you think you can trust him, you poor fool. Jimmy/Edgar, very much mature.


**.Sick.**

Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we bring you the darkness of the human soul, the secret and ugly and entrancing. Tonight, we bring you the "reformed" criminal and the man who believes in second chances...

Tonight, we bring you love and horror, for your delight and disgust.

* * *

"One of the greater ironies of life is that one never truly knows what the man sitting beside them is thinking."

--

It's funny how these things happen.

We're here again, on this park bench in the sunshine, and I don't know how it happened. Look at you. _Look_ at you. Look at _me_. I can't even say it's the first time we've done this, and I know I could explain it away with a hundred different reasons… but none of them would be the truth.

I say something to you, a comment about your non-existent girlfriend. I know you don't have one because I've followed you. I've never seen another person in the windows of your house, never seen you meet a girl at a restaurant—but I still like to tease you. You have the strangest reactions.

When you blush like that, you look so cute. So sweet and innocent. It makes me want to rape you.

I want to hold you down and make you bleed, tear you apart inside and out. I want to feel your blood running down my legs.

Edgar, such a quiet man. So gentle. A man in every way, but you smile at me like a child, this pure, delicate child with soft eyes and soft, soft skin. I can imagine your eyes filled with desperate tears, wide with pain and fear. I can see marks on your skin in the shape of fingerprints, purple and green with thin red crescents from where my nails broke the skin as I came.

You sit beside me on this bench here in the park, a bird perched on the armrest beside you, the sky blue and sharp with oncoming winter. You're telling me about something that happened at work today, some little thing that you found interesting, watching the people around you in that detached, impossibly compassionate way of yours.

A breeze brushes by and you slide towards me. The sunlight is brightest where I'm sitting; jigsaw patterns of shadow are settled over you. Oh, don't come any closer. It's for your own good. When you come so close, my breath catches, my heartbeat fills my ears, and I can see…

I can see you on the ground, a loaded gun between you lips as I fuck you. I can just imagine: you would be naked, the clothes torn from your body—unprotected, vulnerable—and I would not even take off my jacket, unzipping my jeans just enough to—

No, Edgar, don't smile at me. Don't look at me as if I have some value, as if I can share this joyful, simple moment with you. Why do you always find me, why do you always smile at me like you think you can trust me? You know enough, or at least I thought you did… if only you knew!

If only you knew the kinds of things I think about you, at midnight in the darkness of my room, the streetlight's orange glow through my window the only light. If you could see me, screaming your name and biting my lips till they bleed, imagining your skin tearing around me instead of my own fingers.

I gesture for you to go on, now, marveling at the way the afternoon sunlight catches in your dark hair. You could be an angel, Edgar, God's own angel sent to earth to seek out sinners. To redeem the unredeemable.

You could, you know. Some days I think you've redeemed me, as much as you've damned me. To be inside of you, I think, would be as horrible as hell and as sweet as heaven.

You make a motion, your hand sweeping so close to my thigh that for a moment I can feel the phantom touch of your hands on my hips. I'd have a pistol pressed against your head as you sucked me off, and I can imagine, God but I can just imagine thrusting into your throat, choking you, muscles clenching wildly around me as your body panics, fights back against me.

The sun is bright and the sky is blue, and there's sick irony between my thoughts and the world around us. This is possibly the most unhealthy thing I've ever done, spending these endless minutes with you—beautiful, torturous minutes. I ought to just fuck you and be done with it. I ought to rape you, make love to you, I ought to leave town and never stop going.

But I'm still here. I'm always here, for you. No, Edgar, don't touch me! God no, please. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you but I don't know how much control I have. Sometimes I find myself at the door in the middle of the night, hard-on straining my pants and a gun in my hand. It's like I woke up from a dream when my key entered the lock. But how do I know, Edgar? How do I know that next time I'll wake up before I enter _you_? It'll be too late by then. If I feel you around me, look down and see the terror in your eyes, I won't be able to stop. I won't be able to stop until you're broken and bleeding and I've come in you too many times to count. It's a fact, Edgar.

What do I do? I can see myself holding you down, leaning down to kiss you almost sweetly, and the worst part, God the worst part is that in my dreams _you kiss me back_.

I'm losing my mind. You smile at me again, but I think you can feel that something isn't right because your smile falters. You ask me, you ask me if I'm all right. It's funny—it's more than funny, it's hilarious.

I'm not the one in trouble here, you are.

I lean closer and reply, my face inches from yours. Blush, Edgar. I can feel the heat in your skin; your heart beats just a little faster. You don't even notice.

There's blood running through your veins, Edgar. And you trust me. For some stupid, sick reason, you trust me. It's gotten worse, lately, but you have no idea what I've been thinking, what I could do to you. What I, God save me, _will_ do to you, if this goes on long enough.

It's funny how these things happen.

Drop Curtain.


End file.
